SosfDavidO here, and Tombat didn’t try very hard with In today’s strip so I’m not overly motivated myself. This story arc feels like it’s been going on since the Clinton administration. There’s no mention of the wackiness of a blind music producer helping a deaf band director make an album but I assume the guy with the oxygen tube probably has no sense of smell to boot.
Filed under Son of Stuck Funky
12 responses to “We Five”
In typical FW fashion, the blind guy half-asses his way through the big recording session, only to be upbraided by the legendary band director, Harry-something-or-other. Old Memphis bluesmen…every bit as shifty as their Hollywood brethren. Harry demands perfection, you see. It might be a little vague and obtuse, which is understandable as The Author has little experience in that regard from which to draw upon. But at least Harry’s finally making himself useful, sort of.
And he we are with the great big problem: people are required to pay tribute to this strutting irritant and his non-stop sadistic megalomania and bottomless hunger for hearing his name spoken through loudspeakers instead of doing what’s right: ignoring him in the hopes he’ll dry up and blow away.
One of my favorite things to watch in FW is the way the inconsistent drawing morphs characters over time.
In today’s example, ol’ Blind-As-A-Bat Willie Washington has morphed from Sunday strip’s Ray Charles lookalike into a Black Burl Ives Snowman from Rudolph.
Man, Batty is on a roll with both strips. Though I think the way he is using chimney cleaning as a metaphor for constipation is really clever.
I don’t know…With a name like ‘Stacks’…. I though maybe it was some OTHER kind of chimney servicing.
I want to hear the trumpet solo from that dude with the oxygen. It must sound great on the tenth take.
Apparently Blind Willie just ate a huge sack of crack.
Nothing recorded here will be good enough for Harry L. Dinkle until it is pouring down rain in the studio and everyone is exhausted and angry.
This whole arc is in the key of F, as in F you, Harry Dinkle.